


Hand in Chest, Foot in Mouth

by tinktheloser



Series: Percy Hawke [4]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-29 15:26:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8495158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinktheloser/pseuds/tinktheloser
Summary: Fenris has a nightmare and Hawke tries to wake him up, only to discover how bad of an idea that was.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Once again I'm sacrificing sleep because I was itching to write and post this in the same night. How I suffer for the snippets that bounce around in my head. Anyway, I always wondered if Hawke was ever on the recieving end of Fenris' magical fisting (the not good kind), so this one kind of got away from me. 
> 
> Set in Act One

The sky was darkening as Percy Hawke shuffled her way to Hightown. Streaks of oranges and purples were plastered across the sky, fading in vibrancy as the light of the set sun dimmed but still casting warm hues onto the stone walls of Kirkwall homes. The crowds were thinning as the torches were being lit across the city, quieting down to settle for the night.

Hawke thumbed the dagger hidden under her vest. It was still early in the evening, but she was toeing the line as far as nighttime bandits were concerned. Perhaps she should have asked Varric to accompany her just in case.

She shook her head. She was just going to check on Fenris, surely that didn’t require a whole party. Besides, any fool bandit could—or at least _should_ — look at the staff on her back and decide against picking a fight with her.

Because that’s definitely worked before.

Hawke sighed to herself. She hoped she wouldn’t be bothering Fenris by stopping by. She usually preferred to wait for an invitation before barging into someone’s home. It was only polite. But Fenris wasn’t one to issue invitations much, whether because he didn’t think they’d be accepted or because he just didn’t _think_ about inviting people over. It was almost surprising to her that he was unbothered by her just showing up every once in a while.

Or maybe he was bothered, but didn’t care, or want, to show it? Hawke wasn’t sure if that was better or worse.

Hightown was quieter at night than Lowtown. The nobles tended to make annoying complaints about any sort of noise after sundown, which had landed more than a few scoldings from the Seneschal. He’d prattle about maintaining an image or appeasing the nobility or something like that. As a dirt-class Fereldan, Hawke hadn’t much entertained the thought of appeasing anybody—except for the occasional suspicious Templar—much less maintain an image for the comfort of a select group of the pampered.

Honestly, is _this_ what Mother missed so much?

Hawke peered around every corner she rounded, careful in case she might stumble upon a secret cult or spring an ambush—both of which had happened before. On multiple occasions. Just because Hightown maintained a rule of silence, it didn’t mean _things_ didn’t happen after dark. Tonight, however, there were only the few stragglers that hung around in the dark corner of Hightown for the expressed purpose of lurking. Nothing else, they just seemed to enjoy it. Varric probably included them in his cozy little network.

Eventually, she found herself at Fenris’ door, fiddling with the vines creeping up its walls. He probably wasn’t expecting her, but she had something to speak with him about. So this was a necessary visit. Yes, quite necessary. Even if she probably should have come before night fell. When most people slept. Did Fenris go to bed early? Or was he a night owl like herself? Hmm, Fenris the night owl. The image almost made her giggle.

Ah, she was stalling.

With a sigh, Hawke determined that the long walk she made from Lowtown would not be in vain. She knocked on the door and waited.

After no response, she tried again, this time calling, “Fenris?” as though he would hear her from wherever he might be in the mansion. Then again, elves had much better hearing than humans, so maybe he could.

Still, there was no response. Hawke frowned. Fenris did other jobs outside of Hawke’s requests, but she could usually find him in the mansion regardless. Yet, he hadn’t been at the Hanged Man that night—she’d checked there first since it’s right bloody next door to Gamlen’s—nor did she know of anywhere else he might frequent.

The only option she had to was to walk in and see. The idea was uncomfortable, but she didn’t want to go all the way back to Lowtown just yet.

 Hawke pushed the door open, wincing at the loud creak the rusted hinges made. The noise echoed through the mansion’s stone halls, the wind from the door disturbing some of the dust and cobwebs in the foyer. She curled her lip in distaste. Fenris didn’t seem to mind not cleaning—and Hawke didn’t blame him—but this was just nasty.

“Fenris?” she called, her voice bouncing off stone. “Are you home?”

Hawke listened for a response, and though no one answered, she wasn’t prepared for what she _did_ hear.

Heavy, staggered breathing trickled from the common room upstairs, where she and Fenris usually sat for conversation. It was a panicked, pained sort of panting, bearing the gravel of Fenris’ voice.

Hawke’s pulse quickened in alarm, and she bolted up the stairs.

The common room was dim, lit only by a few smoldering coals leftover from an earlier fire that had been neglected. Hawke squinted in the darkness, shuffling towards the source of the breathing when— _there!_

Fenris was curled up in a chair, looking rather uncomfortable, though his position told a tale of the many times he might have slept in other, less cozy chairs. He was leaning his head against the backrest, his arms crossed against his chest and his legs tightly pressed to his torso.

It was almost a relief, but then Hawke saw how clenched his jaw was, the deep furrow of his brow, and the jolting rapid movement of his eyes under tightly squeezed lids. A faint sheen of sweat shone on his neck and brow in the dim glimmer of the coals, and he breathed sharply—too quick, too rough—through his nose.

He was having a nightmare.

Hawke swiftly approached, unsure how to wake him. Her hands hovered over his shoulders. There was an art to interrupting nightmares, particularly when the person you were waking had a colorful reputation of ripping out hearts. Mother had perfected it, saying something about being both firm and delicate. Hawke scoffed. How could one be firm _and_ delicate at the same time?

But then Fenris _whimpered_. Hawke’s breath caught in her throat. She supposed it was time to find out.

“Fenris,” she spoke softly, urgently, but not wanting to touch him just yet. “Fenris, wake up.”

His ears flicked downward, but his eyes remained tightly shut and his breathing quickened.

“ _Fenris_ ,” Hawke repeated a little louder.

She touched his shoulder, meaning to lightly shake it, but when his eyes shot open she realized she’d fucked up—

A burst of blue light filled her vision, and Hawke was struggling to blink away the spots on her eyes when the light _moved_ and she was stepping back but a hand grabbed her arm and _yanked_ —

Hawke tried to gasp, but found that there was a foreign pressure in her chest.

Fenris’ face swam in her vision, his skin lit blue by his markings and a glow radiating from somewhere below. His features were twisted in a snarl, his teeth bared and his eyes flashing and flickering about.

He wasn’t seeing her, Hawke realized, and she felt she didn’t want to know what he _was_ seeing.

Then she remembered she couldn’t quite breathe, and she glanced down.

 _Oh_ , Hawke thought blasely. _Shit_.

In his sleep-ridden state, Fenris had likely registered her as an enemy and reverted to his instincts, which involved shoving a fist in her chest. She imagined his hand was wrapped around her heart, which would explain the black stars dancing at the edges of her vision.

Fenris wasn’t going to like this when he woke up.

 _Hawke_ certainly wasn’t liking it either.

“Fenris,” she managed to choke out. She raised her arms and tried to touch his elbows, his forearms, _something_ to ground him. And herself. “Fenris, it’s not real.”

His ears twitched, as though hearing her, but the glaze in his eyes didn’t clear. His scowl only deepened. If he moved his hand before he woke up, Hawke thought dimly, she might end up missing a heart.

“ _Fenris!_ ” she wheezed. She gripped at his sleeves, but her vision was dimming. “It’s a— _nightmare!_ P-please wake _up!_ ”

Fenris blinked. Blinked again. The grip on her arm loosened.

“H-Hawke?”

She nearly wept.

“Hand,” she gasped.

Fenris looked down, and his eyes widened in horror as his ears fell, his breath hitched. But he didn’t delay in gently— _gently_ —easing his hand out of her chest.

When the pressure disappeared and the blue light faded, Hawke collapsed to her knees and inhaled a sweet lungful of dusty air, gripping at her chest with a shaky hand. Then, as though her body was still reacting to a phantom foreign presence, her stomach heaved and tried to eject something that was no longer in her lungs.

Well, she noted as she coughed harshly, there was a lot more phlegm there than she’d anticipated.

When the coughing subsided and she’d swallowed a few times to clear her throat, Hawke looked up to see that Fenris had backed away, standing almost behind the chair that had been upturned in the scuffle. He stared, his eyes wide, his face pale, and his ears pressed flat. He was clenching and unclenching his fists, and from the tension in his stance, he looked as though he was ready to bolt out of the room. But he was making no move to, so she took that as a good sign.

Still.

Was he afraid of her, or _for_ her?

“Well.” Hawke’s voice was raspy, and she coughed again to clear her throat. “That was… unpleasant, but. Effective? I can see how you neutralize your enemies so easily.”

Fenris opened his mouth, but didn’t yet speak, appearing dumbstruck.

“Are you…” She coughed again, and swallowed back some residual bile. “Are you alright?”

Fenris released a breath. “Am _I_ alright?” he echoed, incredulous. “I nearly—I could’ve killed you.”

Hawke blinked. His voice was barely a choked whisper, and she heard a faint tremor in its rasp. He was genuinely terrified, whether of what he’d just done or how she’d react, she wasn’t sure.

Alright, she decided, it was time for stupid big sister act.

“Ah.” Hawke made a show of checking herself over, patting her chest and arms. “Well, still breathing. If you were really trying to kill me, honestly, you made a poor job of it.”

It was a trick she’d used with Bethany growing up. Pretend any bad situation was a lot less bad than it might have been, slap on a grin and snark it out. Like when Bethany had accidentally set her on fire. Hawke had simply laughed and said that her burnt hair could be a new fashion trend for farmers. It typically worked, or at least would relax Bethany enough to actually deal with the given situation.

Fenris, however, wasn’t amused.

“Hawke,” he gritted out. “Did I hurt you?”

Hawke looked at him, letting her grin fall. “I’m fine, Fenris,” she said softly. She slowly stood up, trying to ignore the shake in her knees. “I mean, I’d rather we didn’t do that again, but you didn’t hurt me. Honestly I should apologize for startling you, I should’ve known better.”

Fenris gave her another incredulous look. “I nearly rip out your heart and you’re the one apologizing?” he said.

“You were having a nightmare,” Hawke explained, doing her best not to sway. She picked her way over to the fireplace, considering lighting it. “You know, I once woke Carver up from a nightmare, not too long after we got to Kirkwall. Ended up with a knife in my shoulder. You’d think I’d have learned my lesson by now.”

She picked up a flint sitting on the hearth. There was still some wood among the embers, but she looked about for more kindling. It would be quicker to simply use her magic, but she needed to do something with her hands. And she doubted Fenris would appreciate magic right now, not when he still looked like a deer about to bolt.

Hawke glanced over her shoulder. He hadn’t moved from his spot, and was giving her a scrutinizing look, searching for any sign that would indicate she _wasn’t_ okay.

“I’m _fine_ , Fenris, I promise” she said. “If it would make you feel better, I can check in with Anders later. I’ll leave out the—ah— _magical fisting_. Hey, would you mind if I lit this?” She gestured to the fireplace.

Fenris’ expression didn’t change, but he shook his head.

“I usually use the books for kindling,” he mumbled, waving his hand toward a pile of books in the corner.

Hawke raised her brow, but otherwise didn’t comment as she reached for one of the books. It was in a language she couldn’t read—maybe Orlesian—so she did her best not to mourn it.

“I _am_ sorry, you know” she said, ripping out a few pages to ball up. “For waking you up. Were you tired? I should leave you to rest some more, you probably need it.”

Fenris shook his head again. “Don’t apologize,” he said. “I’m fine.”

Hawke peered at him. He wanted her to stay?

She settled for a shrug. “If you’re sure.” She stuffed the wads of paper under the less burnt wood and picked up the flint again.

There was some scuffling behind her, and she glanced to see that Fenris was picking up the chair he’d turned over. She bit back a sigh of relief. He was moving again, that was good.

A few strikes of flint and some strategic fanning later, a small fire was crackling and casting a warm glow into the room. It was a step up from the eerie gloom before, and Fenris seemed to relax a little in the warmth.

Hawke fought the twitch at her lips. He was calming down, even if a little. His posture was still stiff and his gaze kept flickering towards her, but there was improvement. Hopefully, when she left later that night, Fenris wouldn’t be brooding too much about the incident. She shuffled over to the chair opposite from him.

“May I?” she asked.

Fenris nodded his assent, and she sat down, grateful to be off her feet. She should eat something, perhaps, to stave off the mild dizziness she still felt. She settled for keeping her breath steady, wondering if he could hear the effort it took to do so.

If he did, he didn’t mention it.

“Was there a reason for your visit?” Fenris spoke after a few moments of quiet.

Hawke blinked. Oh, right.

“Actually, there was,” she said, leaning forward in her chair. “We’ve enough sovereigns to invest in the Deep Roads.”

Fenris nodded. “Congratulations,” he said.

“Bartrand says we leave in a week,” Hawke continued. “These specific tunnels go deep, apparently deeper than Orzammar. I thought about leaving Carver home, but I’m certain that won’t go over well.”

Fenris raised a brow, but the corner of his lips twitched.

Hawke crowed internally. This was good.

“But I don’t have great healing magic,” she went on. “So, I think I’ll take Anders as well. If Carver gets hurt, I want someone with skill to be there.”

Fenris paused, thoughtful. “Are you sure you’re up to spending time in cramped spaces while he practices his manifesto?” he asked.

Hawke snorted. “Don’t remind me,” she said. “I’m going to invest in ear plugs.”

“Between Anders, your brother, and Varric’s bickering with _his_ brother, I think you’ll likely need them.”

Hawke allowed herself to laugh. He was relaxed enough to joke now.

Fenris was giving her a thoughtful look. “Is that all you had to tell me?” he asked.

Hawke shook her head. “I just—I wanted to thank you,” she said. “We wouldn’t have made the fifty sovereigns without your help.”

Fenris blinked, his ears giving the slightest flick upwards. “Think nothing of it,” he replied, looking away.

“And I wanted you to know,” she said. “That whatever debt you mentioned, before, should be considered repaid a few times over by now. A-and—”

Her stomach churned. She’d stalled so much earlier that day, practicing this line so she could just bloody say it. But after tonight’s events, all the words got mixed up.

“So if the debt was what kept you here,” she forced herself to say. “You don’t have to abide by it. I mean, you never had to, of course, but. If you feel like you don’t need to stay anymore, then you don’t need to. Um. Am I making any sense?”

Fenris stared at her, his expression unreadable, though Hawke thought she saw his eyes flicker to her chest where his hand had just been embedded.

Then, he asked softly. “Do you wish me to leave?”

Hawke blinked. “Maker, _no_ ,” she said, shaking her head quickly. “I just thought—well, there are a few apostates in our group, and we get into a lot more trouble than I think you signed up for. I mean, _I_ didn’t sign up for it either, especially the giant spiders, but well I do seem to be the one leading us there anyway—”

“Hawke.”

She snapped her mouth shut, sheepish.

Fenris was giving her a strange look. Then, he shifted his gaze to his hands.

“You act undisturbed by the fact that I nearly killed you just a few moments ago,” he said. Hawke flinched, but smoothed herself out when he looked back up. “I don’t think I have much of a right to be disturbed by a few mages. Or giant spiders.”

Mages, he said, not apostates. Was it intentional?

Hawke tilted her head. “So, what, you think you can stomach squashing a few more bugs?” she asked, hopeful.

Fenris’ lips twitched. “I think I can stand it,” he said.

Hawke would have whooped, right there, if his grin didn’t suddenly fade and his ears droop downward.

“I’m sorry, Hawke,” Fenris murmured, dropping his gaze. “I thought I had better control over myself. I see I was wrong.”

Hawke wanted to take his hands in hers, but decided it would only make him more uncomfortable. Instead, she shook her head. “It’s alright, Fenris,” she said. She touched her hand to her chest, rubbing it unthinkingly. “You managed to wake up in time, _and_ remove your hand without causing any damage. I’d say that’s a job well done.”

It was Fenris’ turn to shake his head. “It should never have happened, regardless,” he said.

Hawke shrugged. “Well,” she said. “It did, and I’m not dead either. And, though I personally don’t think there’s anything to forgive, I _do_ forgive you.

“And thank you, for apologizing,” Hawke added. “I don’t recall Carver saying much other than ‘don’t bloody wake me up next time’ when he stuck me with a knife.”

Fenris snorted, his shoulders losing some of their tension.

Hawke spoke, softer, "Your nightmare. Do you want to talk about it?"

A pause, then he looked back up at her. 

"It is one I've had many times before," he said simply, though Hawke thought he sounded weary. "You do not need to concern yourself with it."

Hawke felt she very much wanted to to concern herself with it, but the implications of his words made her think that she could easily guess the regular subject of his nightmares. She had to suppress a shiver.

Then, Fenris stood up, apparently deciding that was the end of the discussion. Hawke let the conversation go. If he didn’t want to talk about it anymore, she wouldn’t make him.

“It’s late,” Fenris said, glancing out the window. “Shall I accompany you to your uncle’s?”

Hawke thought about walking alone again for the trek.

“Your company would be much appreciated,” she said with a grin. “More so after I get back from the Deep Roads. I’ll need someone to rant to about Carver, I’m sure. And Anders. And, well, probably all of it.”

Fenris laughed. Hawke blinked in surprise. He had a lovely laugh.

“I shall eagerly await your return,” he said, not noticing her dumbstruck look.

He was staying, she realized as they gathered their gear and stepped out of the mansion. He really would stay with them, with her. He was _staying._

If Fenris noticed her strangely cheery behavior on their walk back to Lowtown, he didn’t make a comment on it.

**Author's Note:**

> if the ending seems rushed it's because i'm tired and impatient and i'm SORRY i am doing my BEST. this is probably going to be the only one exclusively with Percy's pov. it's easier to write but Fenris' is much more interesting.
> 
> leave a kudo if i made you feel anything


End file.
